


Chains

by LadyMerlin



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Love, M/M, Metaphors, Misunderstandings, Responsibility, Suicidal Thoughts, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 04:53:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2054373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMerlin/pseuds/LadyMerlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He steps back and offers a weak smile, plastering a band-aid on everything that had just shattered, a stop-gap until he could run away, like he always did.</p><p>Originally Posted on 16 March 2010, on FFNet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chains

Both are men chained to the ground by honour and duty and responsibility and the lives of a thousand people; a burden no-one can understand till they have borne it themselves. They are chained to opposite poles on tethers that let them run until they can see each other, but nothing more. Their fingers outstretched _almost_ touch, a hairs’ breadth apart when their tethers are extended to the limit, and while anyone else would take that as plain cruel irony, for them that’s a sign from the universe.

It is equivalent to the giant chasm between Earth and Vulcan and it will stay there, both enforced by the chains and by iron-wills, until the chains vanish, never actually physically there, and their unblemished control is the only thing holding them back.

Until then, their chains are strong and all-encompassing, having been placed there by a universe that couldn’t care less about the way they change the world, and yet couldn’t care more that this be as difficult as humanely possible.

So Jim Kirk stays away from Spock, stays away like the north pole of a magnet does from the south, yet still miraculously joined at the hip. Which bring to mind other thoughts which Jim refuses to entertain, but cannot deny he has had, because denial is a terrible place to be, and to borrow a phrase, illogical. So he doesn’t deny it. But he does ignore it. And there’s a difference, or so he tells himself.

Instead of dreaming of torrid love affairs and steamy sex and all sorts of other wonderful stuff he could do with gorgeous busty women who would offer themselves to him on silver platters, he dreams of touching Spock, dreams of his voice with the untraceable accent and the burr of his _r’s_ , dreams of the soft texture of Spocks’ skin, the subtle grain like silk on his lips and the imagined rough stubble on his chin that would scrape—and okay, yeah, he dreams of sex. But it can’t be helped, and it’s always secondary. And it’s kind of when he realises something is wrong, because it’s not normal. For him, anyway.

And Spock stays away from him too, following his lead or something, sometimes unsure and trying to reach out, but stays away from him all the same.

He thinks he may have fallen for Spock, and laughs himself to sleep because the idea is too ridiculous to fathom. _Him_? In _love_? Yeah _right_. And somehow his own sarcasm is bitter on his tongue, and he’s reasonably sure he’s fallen _really_ hard.

Can one fall hard, or is the itself landing hard? The velocity of impact is proportional to the height from which the object fell and to the acceleration of free fall which is itself dependant on the gravitational pull of the body in question. So maybe he hasn’t fallen hard, because physics says that’s stupid. But he’s going to land _really_ hard, because Spock’s gravitational pull is undeniable, incredible, irresistible. And suddenly Jim finds himself applying the laws of physics to real life and finds that he’s contradicting his own life policy; he’s avoiding something for fear of the possible consequences and since when does Jim Kirk do that?

But the falling itself is breathtakingly effortless, air-resistance negligible. Falling for Spock was as natural as falling for gravity, and he hadn’t yet landed.

And even though he never (never even plans to) admits this to _anyone_ , the guilt of having forbidden feelings kills him. He’s good at lying, really. He’s been lying all his life, and he keeps lying to the people who matter the most, but now he feels guilty about it, feels like they _know_ he’s lying. (How can they _not_ see it written on his face? It’s printed _right_ there!)

It’s making him feel nauseous all the time, and not hungry. He’s used to it, but no one else is and Bones keeps subjecting him to these terrible oil based hypos that hurt like _hell_ and he doesn’t say anything because maybe the hurt of the hypos will make the guilt hurt less. Bones suspects something because he doesn’t make the usual amount of noise when he’s dragged off for a twice-yearly check-up four times a month.

Something happens to Jims’ very ignored sex-drive; it vanishes. Seriously. He stops dreaming about sex, and instead dreams single-mindedly of the mind-blowing, heavenly _release_ of admitting this, this attraction so deep that it’s almost first nature, to Spock.

He imagines finally standing straight, even though Bones says he’s standing straight all the time. His back aches everyday, without fail, no matter what he does. Painkillers don’t help, different beds don’t help, nothing helps. Of course, no one finds out because captains’ aren’t supposed to have mysterious aches and pains. But he can’t even sleep because of the pain, can’t straighten the crick just _there_ once and for all. His eye-bags grow more pronounced, but he deals because that’s what he’s good at (and lying and hiding). He’s actually more worried about his friends’ responses to his weight-loss than the phantom pain which will always come second to real life and other people.

On top of the guilt and everything, Jim experiences his first failure, and three men die planet-side. He’s the only one on that new crew who doesn’t cry, instead throwing himself into his work with fervor, fueled by an infinite supply of anger. But it’s not just anger. It’s also grief, and doubt, because it’s his fault three men are fucking _dead_.

He hates having to write the letters but he does, and he calls up their families and goes to meet them personally, as if that makes it any better. One of the wives slaps him, and he holds her as she crumples to the ground, sobbing and broken, and as the tears flow from her eyes the fill him up with hatred for his own stupidity that he could have caused _this_. He knows with his rational mind, that he’s guilting himself about something he couldn’t have changed in the condition, but his rational mind isn’t there to protect him when he wakes from his sleep, screaming, from a nightmare in which he’s on Tarsus, surrounded by the men he killed.

It gets worse, but no one knows except for Bones who just keeps nagging at him about his weight-loss. He can’t help it. He doesn’t feel hungry much, anymore.

One day he’s on Earth, standing near a window outside Pike’s office, waiting to meet him, and heart flies to his throat before he can realise what his mind has thought, lightning fast. He’s on the twelfth floor and the sky is blue and suddenly something _clicks_ and that dark shadow that’s always been lingering there, just below the surface, attacks, and Jim is taken aback by its ferocity even though he’s kinda always known it was there.

It would be so easy to open the manual window, so easy to take a flying leap and soar. Well, he wasn’t _stupid,_ of course he knew he’d land and make a nice mess on the floor while he was at it, and he’d probably have to be scraped away with a chisel, but still.

He _is_ a creature of the air and the sky more than he is of the ground, has always been more cloud and dream than blood and flesh, more fantasy than reality. He’s spent his childhood as his mothers’ _dream-mare_ incarnated, He’s spent his entire life as his fathers’ shadow. What difference would it make, _really_? He’d die and he’d be a hero and a name, or he’d be forgotten as the insane and disillusioned were, but he’d be a memory either way. How would that be any different from being a shadow? He’d still be _not_ real.

He realises he’s half-serious and he’s half-considering it when he figures that if he’s almost serious, it’s as good as being serious (you can’t _half_ jump), and he’s just a bit scared as blood pulses through his veins and he hears it ringing in his ears and he really fucking considers taking a step off that fucking ledge and _finally_ getting rid of that god-damned pain in his back and his skin is tingling, hairs standing on his arms and on the back of his neck and a movement behind him catches his eyes.

Bones and Spock are standing there, door still swinging shut, arms outstretched in some ironic _stupid_ imitation of him reaching for the love Spock represented, mouths slack, throats caught in strangled cries. Their eyes are wide; they’re hardly breathing, frozen in concentrated _fear_ , and they’re more scared than men he’d watched die, more scared than men he’d killed, more scared than he thought was possible. They stand frozen, the way men do when they know that movement is futile; that nothing they do can change anything, and they’re horrified by the knowledge.

Maybe the difference between living and dying was their fear, but the thought was more picture than logic, unpin-downable feeling that slipped from his fingers before he could fully understand it, and when it was gone he couldn’t place the loss.

He’s still standing there, he thinks. He’s not even that close to the window ledge (half a meter away), window still shut. He hadn’t said anything out loud, hadn’t even decided (he thought). He hadn’t done anything to give himself away, and can’t understand why they would jump to that conclusion, however true it may have been. He thinks maybe they saw it on his face, though he’s not sure what they could possibly have seen that alerted them to the (admittedly fatalistic) thoughts in his mind. Maybe it’s because they were that much in sync, because they’ve been through so much together, _because they know each other inside-out_. Maybe the saw the decision before he knew he’d made it, because they knew him better than he did himself.

He steps back and offers a weak smile, plastering a band-aid on everything that had just shattered then, hoping it would work for now, until he could run away like he always did. As far as he can tell, it did, because they put down their arms and don’t say anything about what they had seen and they don’t discuss it because how do you discuss something like that? But they are still breathing hard, and they are still terrified, and frankly speaking, so is he, even though he won’t admit it.

After that, they don’t let him out of their collective sight, and he throws himself into his work. They do not betray his confidence, like he knew they wouldn’t. But he can’t help but feel relieved when people don’t start looking at him like he’s crazy ( _There’s Jim Kirk; he tried to kill himself—_ and maybe that’s the first time he’s even thought the words). His secret is safe, for now. But their ever-presence makes him a bit crazy. He needs to feel alone for a while, to understand what had happened, and he can’t do that with them breathing down his neck, 24/7. And even on his ship when he knows, like everyone else, that privacy is an illusion born of respect for others, he can’t help but feel their silent scrutiny burning holes through his clothes and his masks and he feels naked and violated and _angry_.

And still he puts up with it. It’s kinda okay. They’re his friends, and they’re worried. He gets that. But when Bones starts coming to the bridge to check on him every now and then, he loses it a little and storms into Bones’ office one afternoon, completely prepared to throw some stuff about and push Bones away (physically _and_ emotionally), which is another thing he’s really good at.

Bones stands up like he knows why Jim is here, and for a split second Jim wonders if it’s possible that the only times he’s seen Bones in the past month is for work and if it’s that obvious that this is personal and that he’s angry. But he remembers that Bones knows him (better than he knows himself), so okay. His anger has dimmed a little, blunted from the sharp burning in his gut to a dull never-ending throbbing and this too, Bones can tell, because he sits back down.

“What do you want?” Jim asks.

Bones looks a bit surprised and doesn’t answer, and Jim figures he should be more specific because even though Bones knows him better than he knows himself, he can’t read minds (he’s a doctor, damnit, not a telepath!).

“Why are you _following_ me? Why are you watching me all the time Bones?” And Jim knows it isn’t fair, but he’s said it so Bones would have to either talk about it first (which he wouldn’t do) or drop it, fast. He knows Bones too.

“You _know_ why, Jim. We know what we saw, and…” he trails off, looking uncomfortable, and Jim hates that he’s willing to rub salt into the wound, though he can’t imagine why that metaphor is, in any way, appropriate.

“So it’s _we_ now, is it? And _no_ , I _don’t_ know what you saw, Bones. So either say it, or leave it alone.” Jim is angry again, feeling betrayed for some reason, and hurt. Why would he feel hurt? He can’t understand it, but he does. He feels guilty too, but there’s nothing new about that, about twisting the knife a bit more and saying, “Don’t trust me, do you, doctor?” and of all the words he’s ever said to Bones he thinks the use of the word ‘doctor’ may just be the most hurtful.

Bones flinches away from him, like it was a physical blow and Jim hates himself even more. He just needs Bones to stay away from him, so Jim can’t hurt him. _Isn’t he already hurting Bones?_ A voice in his head asks. He ignores it.

“We saw you—near the window—” Bones falters and it’s clear that it’s hard for him to say this, and there’s really no reason it would have been easy. They don’t talk about this kind of stuff. Not because they don’t care, but because they’re able to provide for each other what is unavailable elsewhere; a clean, untangled friendship. No messy pasts’ and dark secrets lying around, where unsuspecting people can trip. Everything’s shoved into a closet so they can take out the alcohol and relax and have a good time. And if something does slip, they can trust each other to never mention it again. It’s a good thing. Until now, anyway. Some small part of Jim wants Bones to say it out loud and make it real; another part is running as fast as it can in the opposite direction, a master of evasion.  

“We thought you—”

“You thought what? That I’d jump?” Jim demands, voice a furious whisper. “I wouldn’t _do_ that to you Bones! I _couldn’t_ kill myself, especially not in _space_! I would _never_ leave you alone out here! I thought you’d trust me! I thought you’d know I’m more responsible than that!” He’s yelling before he can stop himself, before he realises the room isn’t sound-proof, and that outside people have stopped pretending to not-hear and the façade of privacy is gone, shattered like the fragile thing it was.

He finally said it out loud. He admitted that that was what he had been considering. Not that he hadn’t already known, of course, but saying it out loud was different, because now the words were out in the air and they couldn’t be taken back, and it was just different.

And now he understood why he had been so angry. For a second he’d been wondering if he was overdoing it, if his faked anger was a little too harsh, before he’d realised it wasn’t faked and he really _was_ that angry. But he hadn’t understood why. And now he did. It was because he’d thought they would have faith in him, that they would trust him to not be selfish. He would _never_ leave them alone where the whole universe could get to them. He’d never let them get hurt if he could help it. He’d thought they’d known. And turns out they didn’t. And it felt like his emotions and everything for them had gone wasted. He was not that selfish.

 _He wasn’t his mother_.

“You live because you want to, Jim. Not because you have to.” And there’s something innately in _furiating_ in Bones’ calm voice, in the wisdom Jim recognizes in the words, and he storms out and thinks that he’s been storming around an awful lot recently. He storms straight past Spock who pauses and watches him storm down the hallway, his dark, intense gaze giving Jim goosebumps.

He’s off shift and he locks himself in his room and does his very best to not cry, unable to imagine why he would even want to cry because he wasn’t a freaking thirteen year old anymore. He wasn’t on Tarsus anymore. No one was dying. He wasn’t hungry or cold or tired. He was being a wuss and he knew it. So he takes a deep breath and retrieves a stack of the never-ending paper-work and does it, not pausing for anything. He survives on coffee till the next day (he isn’t hungry; he won’t be for a week and a half) and doesn’t go up to the bridge because has Bones sent him a very loud message saying that until he admits something was wrong and does something about it, he’s off duty.

Later on at ships’-night his door slides open and he doesn’t have to look up to know it’s Spock because only Spock can hack his subroutines, and it’s like that for a reason. He’s flanked by Bones, and Jim is reasonably sure they’re hosting an intervention. He swiftly decides to upstage their plans; “I’m sorry.”

They look like they don’t know how to respond, clearly having not expected submission. He feels like laughing, but doesn’t because that would be insensitive.

He murmurs the command to shut the door, and it slides shut and clicks. “Park.” And he waits until they’ve done as he said.

They still look wary, and he hopes they don’t think he’s going to hurt them. But he can see it on Bones’ face. This is the side of him they’ve never seen, the side that he knew scares people. But he’ll rein it in. These are his people. He’s not going to attack them. He wonders where the possessiveness came from, but accepts it. It’s how he’s pretty sure he’s always felt.

“Look, guys. I know what you think you saw the other day.”

He isn’t expecting an interruption, but he is interrupted. “What did we see, Jim?” and it’s Spock and Jim thinks he’s as angry as the time Jim insulted his mother, and Jim wonders why he didn’t see it on Spocks’ face the moment he walked in. “Do explain why you were standing at that window ledge, because I am not able to process why someone clearly as intelligent as you would have an expression of longing as you look at the ground from a height of fifty meters.” His speech is choppy and almost, as if Jim didn’t know better, emotional.

“I don’t know, Spock. Tell me what you saw.” Jim is challenging because he realises Spock is definitely going to be more proactive about this than Bones was planning, judging by the look on Bones’ face.

“Do not insult our intelligence, Jim. Do not think to tell me I am mistaken, because I know you. Or at least I was under the impression I did.” And _that_ , that right there, hurts. And it looks like Spock knows that. Jim fights back before he can think through it.

“Oh, I’m not insulting your intelligence. I’m just questioning your ability to recognize emotions, Commander.” His voice is cold and clipped and utterly matter-of-fact and before he finished saying it he wished he could take it back. A weary part of him thinks that all he seems to be doing now-a-days is hurting people.

Spock looks emotionless, for the first time in a long time (he’s always had some emotion on his face—it just took a while to learn to read it). At some point when they were yelling at each other, they’d both stood up, leaning towards the other over the small table and Spock straightens and it looks like he’s going to walk out and _this_ guilt Jim cannot take.

He almost trips over the table leg as he jumps in front of Spock, whose cold, unrecognizing eyes are more terrifying than anything his waking mind can remember. “I’m sorry.” He instinctively reaches for Spock’s shoulder, to comfort and to be comforted, but Spocks stare is like a shield and his fingers drop uselessly to his side. “I’m sorry. It’s an instinct. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

“I am quite confident you didn’t, Jim. Now explain to me what happened on that day.” And because Spock’s just a little too quick to forgive, Jim realises he’s been played like the fool he is, and it couldn’t have hurt that Jim’s in love with the guy. He’s just a little bit ticked but not because he was played; he’s ticked because he fell for it so easily. He trusted Spock, a lot. And it’s not that Spock betrayed his trust because he’d needed that for acting like such a prick, just that he wasn’t supposed to have that kind of whole-hearted _faith_ in anyone. It tended to get people killed.

He sighs and sits down, and tries to figure out how to say this.

“Look. I wasn’t actually going to do it,” and he doesn’t know if they believe him or not, but plows on. “I was just thinking. It’s not the first time, and I was just allowing myself a moment to be depressed and pissed because I don’t normally…. What?” the looks on their faces (or; the look on Bones’ face and the lack of a look on Spocks’ face) distract him and he pauses.

“It’s not the first time?” Bones asks, this time. His voice is quiet and shocked and Jim thinks he might have made a mistake.

“Have you entertained such thoughts prior to this incident?” Spock’s voice is quiet too, but the slight crease of his brow is more telling than anything else.

“Yeah, ‘course. Everyone has at some point, right?” Silence. “It’s normal. All kids feel it.” Jim wished he were as confident as he knew he sounded. What were they getting at?

“You entertained suicidal thoughts when you were a child?” Spock asks again, gentle.

“Yeah, so?” and Jim can’t help but challenge, but they ignore it.

“Jim, it’s not normal for kids to feel that. I’d be worried if Jo felt like that. What did your mom say?”

Jim shrugs, and both Spock and Bones who have some knowledge of psychology note it to be a sign of avoidance. “Nothing. She didn’t know.”

There is a silence. Bones has always known that there was something that Jim didn’t talk about, but he hadn’t known. It hurts him to think that his best friend, whom he had deemed as lucky and normal, had so much in his past that he didn’t feel comfortable sharing with Bones.

“This will have to be discussed in the near future, but currently we must broach the most recent incident.” Spocks’ voice is crisp and emotionless, but the little furrow on his brow and the almost angry slash of his mouth gives him away. “Why were you considering suicide at Pikes’ office, Jim?”

Jim shrugs again. “I don’t know. I don’t think I can do this. I don’t think I’m good enough.” The silence that follows is more disbelieving than anything else.

“You don’t think you’re good enough, Jim? You’re an _idiot!_ ” Bones crows, almost relieved that it’s nothing more than a little self-doubt, which could be dealt with. But Spock sits still, watching.

“Doctor McCoy, could you excuse us for a moment? I believe there are some matters I must discuss with the Cap—Jim.” Spock’s eyes never leave Jim, and Bones nods. That’s right. Spock needs to talk to Jim and it would be best, because Spock understands, like Jim, the pressures of leadership, which Bones was smart enough to never take up.

The door swings shut, and Jim doesn’t meet Spocks’ eyes. “Have you eaten?” Spock asks, and Jim nods. Spock ignores him, seeing the truth, and gets a cup of coffee (three sugars and a cream; just the way Jim likes it) for Jim and a cup of tea for himself.

“I believe there is more to this matter than your imagined self-inadequacy.” That was just like Spock; cutting to the chase without further ado.

“Yeah?” Jim asks, but this time he isn’t challenging. If Spock can figure it out and put it in words, all the better, because he sure as hell doesn’t know.

“I believe you feel guilt for the deaths of Ensigns Barker, Odam and Hippochkirane, which is expected; I feel responsible as well.” And as if it wasn’t a big enough shock to hear Spock admitting emotion (because in Jims’ book, ‘responsible’ equals guilty), he continued. “I also believe you are hiding something. Judging by your physical appearance and by your sleep charts which I have acquired from the doctor, you are neither sleeping, nor eating well. I believe you are stressed, but this too can be explained as a part of your job. I would not expect it to get to you; you have experience in these matters—stress is nothing you cannot handle. You are hiding something.” Spock is convinced, and Jim doesn’t know if he can bullshit this one away.

Spock waits. Jim thinks he can wait too, but in two minutes, the silence is _killing_ him.

“I feel,” Jim takes a deep breath, “inappropriate emotions towards someone on the crew, who is very close to me, and my inability to express this emotion and the fact that I have this emotion to start with, causes me tiredness and guilt.” And it’s something Spock would have phrased, and Jim feels like their positions have been switched because he said something Spock-ish, and a look of pain flashes through Spocks’ eyes.

“Who is this crew-member, Jim?” Spock asks, gentle even though he’s in pain.

“I can’t say, Spock.” And Jim is cursing inside his head because he’d hoped that giving the vague story would discourage Spock from asking further questions, and now he’d been backed into a corner with no way out.

“Jim.” Spocks’ tone is reproachful. “Do you not trust me? I would never do anything to jeopardize your relationship with this person. I ask because I possess an unhealthy amount of curiosity towards the identity of the person who has affected you such.” His voice is so soft and he still rolls his _r’s_ the way Jim loves, but his eyes are dark and either emotionless or in pain, neither option acceptable to Jim.

“’Course I trust you, Spock! It’s just—” and Jim sighs. You know all the responsibilities that kept them apart? And it was a sign from the universe? Well. Yeah. This was probably a sign from the same fucked up universe that apparently couldn’t give anyone a break. “It’s just that it’s you.”

There is no outrage, no loud sounds, no door slamming. Jim looks up and Spock looks, if possible, even more hurt, and suddenly he places the slight tilt of Spock’s head as _longing_. “You do not wish to disclose the identity to _me_?” And Jim understands the hurt. “I see. I shall send in the Doctor—speaking about these emotions will help you, Ji—Captain.”

He’s about to get up and kiss the idiot senseless, but his leg is numb and for the second time in the past hour he trips, only this time he can’t stop himself because he can’t feel the whole of his right leg. He’s fully expecting the impact, which never comes because of the slim arms that catch him as he falls. This is probably another sign from the universe, with the gravity and falling thing. Jim’s fucked up, but he isn’t an idiot. He can take a hint as well as the next guy.

He holds onto Spock’s arm and straightens himself, and before Spock can say anything, Jim kisses him. It’s a really quick kiss, nothing more than a brush of the lips, but it’s more electric than anything Jims’ ever felt. His heart is thrumming faster than when he tried to drive that corvette off the cliff, adrenaline pumping through his veins, and he thinks he’s just a little pathetic, before he remembers he _just kissed **Spock**_.

He looks up and Spock is frozen still, still holding onto Jims’ waist from when he’d fallen. He’s very pointedly looking at the wall, around Jim. “It’s you towards whom I feel inappropriate emotions, Spock. That’s what I meant. If I’ve read you wrong—”

And he’s cut off in the most wonderful way possible, which is Spock’s lips, which taste like the tea from which he had just one sip, warm and spicy. Spock is totally in control because his stunned body isn’t responding to his increasingly urgent messages to get up and do something, and he tilts Jims’ head back to deepen the kiss, his lips parting, letting Jims’ tongue into sensuous silken heat, and his heart is still trilling.

Spock pulls away from Jims’ lips just as the door _whooshes_ open and Bones sees them standing there, Spocks’ arms the only things keeping Jim from melting into a gooey puddle on the ground, an identical look of bliss on their faces. There is an extended second and Bones says “oookay,” and shuts the door, and he can only imagine how Bones would be reacting to that but he can’t really because Spock is kissing him again.

And the world knows where it went from there, because of who they are. Bones had a little hissy fit but got over it, and apparently everyone else had been seeing it for longer than they can imagine.

But in hindsight Jim thinks that it’s his chains that make this all the more special because he’s always defined himself by those limits and it was kinda scary to think that he’d been setting the limits himself, all along, and never realizing it. To feel that connection to the ground snapped and built in another direction that he chose is wonderful, because he feels in control and he feels like his feeling of _trustjoysorrowlove **faith**_ is reciprocated, for once, like the bridge is being built from both ways instead of just one.

And all the guilt? Yeah it never went away. But then if it _had_ gone away he’d have been worried because it would mean he’s not feeling each loss as it should have been felt.

It was almost ironic that Spock, who claimed to be a master of the suppression (or repression) of his emotions was able to teach him the best way to express his grief (and he would know, because of the whole Narada thing), which was to accept it and give it the time it was due, before remembering that coming to space was a choice each person had made, and knew the consequences for, and that even though all life should be protected to the maximum, no one had control over _every_ thing, and that had to be accepted.

Well. It makes a lot more sense via mind-meld, anyway. He still has to talk about his childhood, someday. But Spock’s not pushing, which is good. And Jim has a good feeling about this. He thinks it’s going to last, and he’s good with that.


End file.
